


Palermo 2010

by Schattenecho



Series: A history of love [2]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Andrés enjoys his power, Backstory, Cosa Nostra, He is a manipulative asshole, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Martín knows too, Prequel, Sicilian Mafia, and he knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24391222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattenecho/pseuds/Schattenecho
Summary: In the south of Italy, where silver olivetrees grow out of the hot red earth, there is a whole diffrent world. A world old traditions and honour. A perfect place to hide. At least Martín Berrotte wasn't bothered in his new home in Palermo yet. But it's not a big barrier for Andrés de Fonollosa on a suicide mission
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: A history of love [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758121
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	Palermo 2010

Palermo, Sicily   
9 years before hour X

Martín was in a good mood, when he closed the door behind him and the warm sun warmed his back. The morning dew had dried already. He was ready for another summer day in Palermo. The breeze from the sea smelled salty and reminded him of the long and windy nights in Buenos Aires. He adjusted the heavy leather bag on his shoulder a stroke his path to the harbour. 

Martín Berrotte, thirty-three years old, living in in the capital of the autonomy region of Sicily for three years now, was one of the best engineers in world, nobody had ever heard of. He had helped the planning commissions of Europe’s biggest tunnel-projects and reworked the entire drinking water system of Rome. Never officially, of course. Not criminally either. Just…discreet. 

Well, today’s plans weren’t that glorious. Just a meeting with Salvatore down at the pier. Something about one of the two ferries, that cruised between Palermo and Messina. The ship had a dysfunction, none of the worker in the docks could find nor fix. He would have a look at it, it wouldn’t take much time. And then Salvatore would owe him something. In a world like Sicily, where family, honour and traditions still had value, it was always handy to have an open favour. And of course being in a good relationship with the Cosa Nostra wasn’t that bad either, especially if you still were (without picture and full name, but still) on the searching lists of Interpol. 

Martín closed his eyes, as he walked around the corner and the sun shone in his face directly. It was one of the wide, ugly streets which had been built in Palermo after the American occupation of Sicily. Dirty concrete and terrible architecture. But it belonged to Palermo, as well as he did.  
The Berrotte family originated from the south of Sicily the poorest part of the poorest region of Italy. About the 1890s his ancestors immigrated to Buenos Aires, but in their hearts, they had always stayed somehow Sicilians. An explosive mixture between Sicily an Argentina, between pride, cleverness, honour and cheekiness, that he also carried with him. It got him in a fuck of lot of troubles.  
But it also was the reason, that he, a non-Sicilian, a foreigner even, wasn’t casted out by this city. He wasn’t assimilated, quite the contrary. The people called him “Argentino” and he didn’t really bother to hide anything. Let the people chat and do their gossip, about who was sleeping with whom in who’s bed. He had learned not to care about such things.   
But the people treated him as one of them, nobody would even think of selling him out to the police. 

A shabby old Fiat bolted round the corner, so close to him that it nearly hit him.  
“Hijo de gran puta!”, he yelled at the driver.  
Fucking moron, it was obvious, that the streets were too narrow to drive like a drunken maniac. He realised by himself, that his temperament was about to get the better of him. It wasn’t the day to ruin his mood, so he tried to focus on something else. The old beautiful buildings were renovated, thanks to the money of the European Union.   
Maybe he should visit one of the working sites. Just to make sure. At the end of the day, he really liked this town.   
His bag was filled with tools and construction drawings, which probably wouldn’t be of any use. It was just a habit from his time on the run to carry around the most important things. He hated himself for it.   
It turned nine, the bells of the many churches rang. His meeting should take place at nine, but he didn’t hurry. Why would he? That was the thing he liked the least about the Germans: He always had to come in time. But here in Italy nine o’clock was a relative thing.  
Martín turned left and saw the glittering, blue surface of the sea. He heard a couple of male voices arguing passionately.  
The voices belonged to five men, two dressed like fishermen, one with a flat cap and two waiters. They argued about a ratty box full with fresh fish. The reason why for the guy with the cap joined the discussion didn’t seem clear to Martín, but it was quite normal that random people did this, so he didn’t care.  
Two ships anchored at the breakwater.  
Only one was in use.   
In front of the other sat an elderly man wearing a white shirt with the collar unbuttoned, nearly bare head and sunglasses. He looked at the empty ship with pity.   
Martín passed the fishermen and walked straight to him. Salvatore didn’t pay him any attention, until he stood directly next to him.  
“Look at my beauty, Argentino. My little girl chained up like a dog. A shame.”  
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure, that this chain is about to break.”  
Salvatore looked up to him:  
“I count on you for that.”  
Martín nodded. There was no need for a hearty embrace or a traditional kiss on the cheek. He was a professional and this was man nearly twice his age. And definitely not his type.  
The mafioso got up grunting but stood up straight:  
“I will show you the problem. Follow me.”  
Salvatore entered his ship and invited Martín with a gesture to go below. The engineer examined a few spots of rust, that were more or less covered with paint.   
“Watch for the head.”, Salvatore opened the door to the engine room.  
The engine was big, eight giant pistons, two tons of oil covered steel. Martín whistled through the teeth and slowly laid down his bag. His eyes examined every single part:  
“What exactly is the problem? It doesn’t start?”  
“No, it does. But it sputters.”  
“Hm. I see.”  
Martín already had a suspicion. But he wasn’t sure. He needed to check. Fortunately he had been to lazy this morning to dress accurately, so he just wore a messy shirt, where more filth didn’t matter.   
“Well. I will have to take a closer look. Is here an assembly board somewhere?”  
“Yeah, sure. There in the corner. I have to do some things, do you mind, if I leave you alone here?”  
“No, no problem.”  
If he was right, and Martín knew that he was right ninety-nine percent of the times, he had to spent at least two hours laying under a massive block of metal. He didn’t suffer from claustrophobia, but still: the prospect of hours of stifling air, sweat and heat wasn’t that pleasing. A great Thursday morning.

“The springs.”, Martín tried to clean his hands with the already oily towel: “They moved out of place. I put them back. No need to worry anymore, the engine should work properly now.”  
“Never expected something else. “, Salvatore shook hands with him. Martín knew, that he would find an inconspicuous brown envelope in his letter box. The Cosa Nostra could be an overwhelming force, that killed at it’s wish, but also extremely beneficial to their associates.   
“Caballero, I take my leave. Have fun with your little girl.”  
He just wanted to get home and take a proper shower.   
The sun had risen during his repair, the warmth of the morning evolved into an oppressive heat. He sweated heavily.  
The fishermen disappeared in the meantime, probably to have lunch.  
Martín hurried much more than on his way to the harbour. It wasn’t just the heat, the sticky oil on his skin made it definitely worse. When he reached his street he was nearly running, rummaging around for his keys. Like he was fleeing something. Or was running to something.  
Behind the door coolness and silence greeted him. Martín relaxed immediately, soaked in a deep breath and leaned against the cold wall.   
The hall had two doors and a staircase. The staircase lead to the upper floors and the other apartments. The second door was the entrance to the garden.   
He had wanted to go straight to his flat, but suddenly he felt the strange urge to enter the garden.   
There was no gardener who could take care of the patio. The plants just grew as they wanted, in the spring they turned into big blossom piles.  
Martín walked slowly through the high grass while he took a long look at the balconies. Two children played on one of them. 

“I’ve never thought that you would ever become settled. You just need some children a I have to shoot you.”  
Martín’s heart jumped into his throat. This deep, rough voice, this cultivated but relaxed sounding Spanish. The grin, one could even hear. He swallowed dryly before turning around.  
Andrés sat on a bench in the shadow. As always perfectly dressed.   
Martín looked down upon himself. He felt extremely underdressed and was painfully aware of the oily spots on his clothes and skin.   
Andrés chuckled, while he stood up and came closer. Martín realised the small shock that went down his spine, as he touched him friendly.  
“Why so scared?”, asked Andrés.  
Martín bite his tongue. He hadn’t said a word, since he spotted Andrés, an effect his friend always had had on him. He cleared his throat:  
“I’m just surprised to see you. Why are you here?”  
“Oh, am I not allowed to visit my best friend?”  
“Uhm, of course you are. I just… didn’t expect it.”  
He hadn’t. Absolutely not. Their ways split five years after their first meeting in Buenos Aires, but never stayed away from each other for more than three weeks. Martín always managed to find Andrés and travel to him.  
Today was the first time Andres visited him.  
“Well, I happened to be in the area and thought I just drop in. I thought you would like it, but if it bothers you I leave.”  
“No!”, Martín winced at his way too fast answer and calmed down in a second: “No, of course I like it. Where have you been in the last weeks?” he tried to get the conversation started.   
He barely noticed that Andrés leaded them both back to the entrance. And that he followed him completely mesmerized like he was drugged.   
“Oh, just… You know the way. Roaming around here and there. What it much more interesting: You’ve lived here for how long? Three years? What happened?”  
“Maybe I got old.”  
“Or sick.”, he opened the door for Martín, who just realised that he moved: “Why Sicily?”  
“I considered Bordeaux or Vienna. But I doubt that Interpol forgot about us. And here… Let’s say the police is a bit more relaxed. Especially, if your family hails from here.”  
“I always forget, where you Argentinians are from.”  
Martín smiled. His mind, usually sharp and quick, didn’t manage to catch one a bit more complex thought, but he didn’t really care. He had forgotten, that he had wanted to shower and even the heavy bag full of dirty tools hanging over his shoulder.   
“But I have to admit, I understand why you chose this town.”, they were back on the street: “It’s charming. And you were right: My visit isn’t just a friendly reminder of my existence.”  
“What happened? Something about Sergio?”  
Every time they met, Andrés started sooner or later to talk about Sergio. Andrés loved his little brother. Sergio was always sickly and needed a bit of a helping hand sometimes. Andrés desire for freedom and his permanent escape from the law didn’t stop him to visit the little flat in Madrid from time to time. Just to make sure, that his brother was doing well.   
“No, no, Sergio is fine. He carved in work. You can’t imagine, how committed my hermanito is.”  
“So, what can I do for you?”, Martín had to take a few fast steps to keep up with Andrés: “Or are you just here to check if I didn’t get too middle-class?”  
“Oh, I would never dare to doubt your eccentricity. I have project and I would like you to join it.”  
“A project.”, Martín repeated carefully: “A plan.”  
“Exactly. A plan. And I just need one more man. You would fit quite nicely.”  
It had been these words, these exact words, which changed his life completely eighteen years ago. Everything he had done since then it had started with these words. He knew, that Andrés knew  
Andrés de Fonollosa was a master of manipulation.  
Martín couldn’t do anything else than fall for him. Because he never had the choice. Andrés could tell him to stab himself with a knife, without hesitation. For Andrés he would murder and let himself murder.  
“And what is the target of your plan?”, Martín tried not to sound so excited as he was. He failed: “A jeweller? A diamond mine? A bank?”  
“Gold.”  
“How many ingots? Forty? Fifty?”  
Andrés laughed derisively:  
“Ninty.”  
Martín whistled through the teeth:  
“1080 kilograms. Not bad.”  
“I mean ninety tons.”  
“What?”  
“Ninety tons.”  
Martín stopped and stared at his friend. This had to be a joke. This just couldn’t be true. If he remembered the gold price right, then ninety tons would be four billion euros. Nobody had ever stolen so much, even if you count together the prey of the biggest heists of all time.   
But Andrés didn’t even start grinning as he walked forward.  
“You are serious, aren’t you?”, Martín hurried up to keep up.  
“Yes. Every single word.”  
“But, how?”  
“Well, don’t know exactly yet. The plan isn’t finished now.”  
“From where do you want to get this insane amount? Do you want to rob all Spanish churches?”  
“Not a bad idea, but I thought of a bit more sophisticated procedure.”  
“Fort Knox, or what?”  
“I said sophisticated. I talk about the vault in the Bank of Spain.”  
Before he could stop again, Andrés forced him to go ahead.   
“This is insane, Andrés. The security measures are the strongest on Europe. The building is guarded by the military, the police, the guardia civil and a private contractor. The building is to big to defend properly. The vault was built by more than twenty secret companies. Even if you could figure out every one of them, you still had an unsolvable enigma. Not starting on the technically difficulties of getting ninety tons of gold out of a building, that is fucking under attack. This is complete madness.”  
“Quick and smart as ever. But you’re wrong on the last point. It’s just almost madness.”  
“Just almost? You would need a bloody miracle.”  
“What do they tell you in your engineer studies?”  
The favourite sentence from his old tutor came into Martín’s mind:  
“There are no miracles. Just intellect that reaches the extent of miracles.”  
“There you have it.”  
“You mean, you could crack the bank?”  
“No, I mean that we could crack it. Of course, it will take years, but I know, that this one is my masterpiece. I want you to be at my side.”  
“Why?”  
“Martín, stop playing dumb. You are my best friend, you are the only person in this world, who would die for me. And exactly this kind of a person is what I need.”  
Martín didn’t know what to say.   
He didn’t even know where he was. Andrés guided them though the heat. A light dizziness, coming from the acute dehydration, had taken hold of his mind.  
“Where are we going?”, he asked.  
“Don’t worry we are nearly there. See, there it is.”

In ahead of them appeared an old stone-brick wall belonging to one of the many old churches of Palermo. Andrés had to duck his head in order to get through the narrow door of the church’s garden.  
Instead of entering the church, he headed to a bench in the shadow under one of the orange trees. In the sun was the heat nearly unbearable, the air flickered over the hot stones of the courtyard.   
Martín sweated, his shoulder hurt and he had a headache. Apparently, Andrés had even overcome the normal human reaction to extreme heat. He didn’t seem bothered at all:  
“I’ve always dreamt about doing something marvellous, something great. Before this all comes to an end.”  
“You’re retiring?”  
Andrés smiled, but his eyes were filled with sadness:  
“Isn’t that the dream? Retiring before your fifties?”  
The sadness didn’t disappear from his features. Martín felt the tiny change as a little shiver, which went down directly into his bones.   
He didn’t want to say anything, fearing that Andrés would react with fury or more sadness. He knew, that his friend didn’t like to talk about emotions in general and about his own in particular. 

The sun was still shining on a blue cloudless sky. Despite of that everything looked somehow grey and colourless.  
Martín swept his face with his sleeve. He was still covered with black oil and had to shower. Andrés glanced at the cracky wall of the church. The a strangly cold wind blew though his already short hair.  
“Martín?”, even his voice changed.  
A serious undertone laid in it, a tone that could express a deep philosophical insight. Martín felt his heart beating in his mouth, as it got faster and faster and forced his breathing to go faster too.   
He knew that Andrés would say something important, something heavy.   
“You know, that you are like a brother to me, as Sergio. Maybe, in some aspects even more. And that’s why you should know it first.”, he exhaled deeply: “My mother died years ago, killed by a genetic disease called myopathy. The probability of passing it on is one in billion. But you know me: I’ve always been the a lucky one.”  
His smile was bitter and forced.   
Cold shivers ran down Martín’s spine. He heard the words, he knew what they meant individually. He understood that Andrés was dying. Not now, not even soon. But he was dying in this moment. He would die in every moment until his heart finally would stop. His clock was ticking mercilessly.   
No. This was impossible.   
It couldn’t be real.   
Andrés could not die. Destiny couldn’t be that cruel to take Andrés away from him. It would kill him. It would kill the entire world. Nothing could make sense without Andrés. Martín didn’t know how he should be able to live without the centre of his life, this most important part of his soul ripped out of his body.  
“I’m not showing symptoms yet. It will take years, maybe decades. But if when my hands start shaking there are three years left. I am a dead man walking.”  
Martín didn’t say anything. Everything lost it’s meaning. Not in a philosophical way, he literally couldn’t remember what the purpose of the trees, the church, the bench or something else was. The wind blew the remaining blossoms from the tree on the ground.   
“Does Sergio know?”, Martín was frightened by the calmness in his own voice.   
“No. And I won’t tell him about it. Not until it’s completely inevitable. He’s been through enough and doesn’t need a sick brother. Aside from that I don’t want anyone to pity me or to grief. Especially not you.”  
“Then why are you telling me?”  
“Because I have to get all my sadism and pain out of my system. It had to hit somebody. And you’ve always been my scapegoat, Martín. You don’t put up a fight. I should be sorry.”  
“But you’re not.”  
“No, I’m not. I wish I were.” 

And the strange thing, the paradox of his whole existence was, that Martín believed every single one of these words and still couldn’t stop his heart from jumping around in joy whenever Andrés just merely touched him.   
“Is that the reason for your suicide plan? Because it doesn’t matter to you anymore?”, he still sounded extremely clam like the had a little chat about the weather.”  
“No. I want to do it, because this is my last chance. This heist isn’t a crime. It’s an unfinished poem, a half-written novel. It’s the last and biggest thing, that I will ever be able to achieve.”, he turned to Martín and looked him in the eyes for the first time.  
His glance was deep and seemed to glow. The dark eyes were nearly black and predatory like a lion. Martín backed off a bit, completely intimidated by this one gaze.   
“Do you understand, Martín?”, Andrés held him in place with his glance: “Do you understand, what this means to me?”  
He nodded and Andrés smiled again. The glow turned back into the normal brilliance. He casually looked at his watch:  
“Oh, nearly twelve. Service starts in few minutes and I have to show you something.”  
And without a trance of his former mood, he got up and ambled to the church’s gate. Martín followed him like a little confused puppy. 

At the inside it was dark and cold. The inventory, the benches, the altar, the monstrance were barely visible in the dreariness. Andrés headed to a dark spot at the wall in the shadow of side aisle.   
It wasn’t just a dark spot it was a painting. Old, heavily weathered but still recognisable. It showed a man hanging on a cross, the head bowed in complete devotion. A cloud was hanging over his head and a pale, bodyless hand coming from inside the cloud blessed him. At first sight one could say it was Jesus Christ, but the obligatory sign with the letters “INRI” was missing.   
Martín knew he was looking at Saint Dismas.  
“Saint Dismas.”, Andrés confirmed: “The patron of all criminals and the symbol for remorse. But do you know, what I really like about him? What I am fascinated by?”  
Martín could tell it:  
“His devotion. You know, I got it. I’m your punching bag.”  
“Do you really think, that I care that less about you? You are an astonishing man, Martín. The most astonishing I’ve ever met. You let me do everything I want to you, without saying a single word. You bear all this pain I do to you and don’t expect anything. What is this thing inside you, that let you do this?”  
Andrés’s eyes burned two holes directly into his soul, tried to see every secret and every little thing inside it. His glance was glowing, like fire.  
Martín kept silent. He didn’t know what to say. If he said “I don’t know”, he would be a liar. Of course, he knew. He wasn’t neither stupid nor ashamed of his feelings.  
He just couldn’t talk about them.   
The bells saved him. Andrés looked up in surprise, as he didn’t expect the noise. The door opened and a man in liturgical clothing entered the aisle. He threw a look at his two visitors and when he recognised Martín his face grimaced disapprovingly. Gossip could apparently do some harm. He gestured them to go. Martín didn’t think of following the command like a well raised altar boy.   
But Andrés ignored it, placed his hand on his shoulder and guided him back to the street.

“I’ve already found a place to stay the next few years to prepare for the heist.”, his eyes went normal again.   
“But you say I’m too civic.”  
“Yeah, you know how this goes. One just wants to visit a lovely monastery and then decides to stay there for a while. I have to confess, I’m a bit in love.”  
“With a monastery? You didn’t get religious, did you?”  
“Heaven forbid!”, Andrés smirked at his accidental joke: “No, I just like monks. Great neighbours, mainly because of the vow of silence they took.”  
“And where is this monastery?”  
“In the valley of the Arno, about forty kilometres from Florence. A very nice place.”

Martín just nodded.  
The words he heard in front of the painting still rambled around in his head. Because Andrés had been right with every single one of them. The difference of power between the two of them was so big, that every sane psychologist would categorise it as abusive.   
Martín knew very well, that Andrés enjoyed it to have power over somebody. Never in physically, he hadn’t the strength or the wish to beat somebody up. His ability to manipulate came from this desire. He desire to have control over various persons. And nobody gave this control more willingly than Martín.   
The best proof for this inequality was the fact, that despite of this knowledge he couldn’t stop loving him. No, he loved him more with every time.  
Was he a masochist?   
Yes, probably.  
Could he change anything?  
No, definitely not.  
Not without destroying himself. He fled his home at the age of eleven, survived four years on the street, saw violence, brutality and death. He could stand that. But losing Andrés, that would destroy him.   
A punch that would split him into thousand pieces.   
The clock was ticking.   
Martín didn’t think about it. 

Grief passes through a couple of stages. Denial and Not-wanting-it-to-be-true is the first one. The first step you have to take before you can heal.   
Martín didn’t know at this point, but it would take more than four years until he could a single stop forward.  
Four years until he would fall.


End file.
